Philippe directed a broad smile at me again, as if I were the only one who’d spoken. “I was just a little boy at the time, but I spent every day after school here in the bookshop with my grandpère. He even put a stool in front of the cash register so I could help him when the store got busy. I knew all the regulars. Is there anyone in particular you are looking for?”
I exchanged a hopeful glance with Drew. “Yes. My late husband, Kit Langford. Do you recognize the name?”
He shook his head. “No, madam. I’m sorry, but I do not.”
I hid my disappointment. “I know he purchased at least one book here, but if he wasn’t here regularly, then I don’t expect you to remember him.”
“Which book? My mère tells me I have a perfect memory—that I can remember the titles of books better than the names of the customers who purchased them.” Another shrug. “It’s doubtful, but possible I’d remember.”
I pulled out the book tucked under my arm and placed it on top of a small stack. “It’s The Scarlet Pimpernel.” I opened up the front cover. “It has the name and address of your store stamped inside the front cover.”
His dark eyes widened as he flipped the book over twice and then examined the cover. “How very strange. I remember this exact book very well, mostly because my grandfather would only ever allow one copy in the store, and if anyone tried to purchase it, he would tell the customer that it was flawed in some way and order another for them to purchase. I was also charged with shelving the books alphabetically, but if I ever saw that particular book out of order, I was to leave it alone. I never thought to question him because he was my grandfather.”
“And you don’t remember selling it?” Drew asked.
Philippe looked at him as if surprised to see him there. “No. It was never sold. It just . . . disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” Drew’s forehead wrinkled.
“Yes. There was a man who lived in the back of the bookstore. And one day poof he was gone, and so was the book.”
My gaze met Drew’s.
“This man—do you remember his name?” Drew asked.
“Oui. Christophe Legrand. He did special printing for my grandfather in the back room. I was never to mention it to anyone, especially to the Germans. He was a very nice man. He used to give me peppermints and play marbles with me. I was sad when he left.”
I attempted to keep my voice calm. “Do you remember anything about him? Anything that might help someone recognize him?”
His face scrunched in concentration before he spoke. “He smoked a pipe and he would sometimes let me help him to light it.”
My throat seemed to thicken, making it difficult to speak. “Anything else? A lot of gentlemen smoke pipes.”
He shook his head, and then stopped. “There is one thing. He wore a gold ring on his little finger. It had two swans on the flat part of it. I remember that because that’s the hand he’d use to hold his pipe.”
I felt Drew’s hand on my arm, and I realized I was shaking. He stepped away from Philippe, bringing me with him. “Kit?” he asked softly.
I nodded.
“Do you need to sit down? Or leave?”
I knew if I said yes, he wouldn’t hesitate. But I couldn’t stop here. We’d learned nothing, really, except that Kit had lived behind a bookseller’s shop under an assumed name during the war. And had perhaps stolen a book. As much as I wanted to leave, to accept that there was nothing more to be learned about my husband’s past and any association he might have had with La Fleur, I knew this couldn’t be the entire story. It was as if I’d seen my husband’s ghost, and I was determined to follow to see where it led.
“No, really. I’m fine. There was something else your father told you—something about a white wolf? Maybe Philippe will remember hearing a reference from his grandfather or Kit.”
He continued to gaze steadily at me. “Only if you’re sure. I’d be happy to walk you back to the hotel . . .”
“No,” I said a little too sharply, making him flinch slightly. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” I stopped, unsure what I was going to say. I took a deep breath. “I’d like to see this through. I’ve come all this way, so I might as well.” I forced a smile, probably the sort that Anne Boleyn wore to the chopping block, but at least it was a smile.
Keeping his gaze on me one moment longer, Drew referred to his notepaper once more before turning back to Philippe. “Do you remember your grandfather saying anything about a white wolf with a cross?”